


A Little Attention

by Silverwing26



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Blood Play, Dark, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Shota, moody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 13:27:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2430500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverwing26/pseuds/Silverwing26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian is working in the kitchen, trying to get the evening meal prepared. Ciel, on the other hand, has other ideas about where the butler's attention should be focused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Attention

He is in the kitchen with the soft sound of food preparation drifting into the hallway. _Thwick, thwick, thwick_ goes the knife against the board. It is a rapid, rhythmic sound, punctuated by the sound of the blade sliding along the surface to lift whatever he has been cutting and drop it into the pot, the pan, the bowl. He is moving, the heels of his finely polished shoes tapping against the stones of the kitchen floor. His back is towards the door and it looks as though he is unaware that he is being observed. 

The boy stands in the hallway. He shouldn’t be there, not below stairs. He has the right, of course; it is his house and thus he can go anywhere he so chooses. He peers through the crack in the doorway and the thought bounces around in his head, _I ought not to be here._

 _Thwick, thwick, thwick_ , and then he is turning around to pull spices down from a small shelf. His face is a mask of indifference, of pallid acceptance of the task at hand. He allows the polite, formal smile to drop from his face and what is left is handsome though somehow feral. His lips are set in an even line, barely touching together and just barely curling at the corners. His eyes, always such an unusual garnet color, do not sparkle with false mirth, but rather hold the shining intelligence of a wolf, a panther, a raven perhaps. There is a world of indescribable things playing behind those shining irises and as his back once again faces the door, unbeknownst to his watching master, he arches a fine, dark brow.

It is unusual to see him in this state and the boy holds his breath without realizing it. His shirt sleeves are rolled to his elbows, and the boy watches the muscles in his arms flex as he handles the knife, adds spices to the pot he is working over, sweeps things into the wash basin. The boy swallows hard, not sure what he is doing in this place he feels he ought not to be. _It’s nothing at all_ , he tells himself. _I am simply checking to see if he is attending to his duties,_ his mind supplies, but the boy is a consummate liar. 

He pauses as if in thought, a gloved finger curled before his lips. Black hair splashes against the collar of his starched white shirt when his head tilts to the side. _Tap, tap, tap_ , and he is moving again, reaching into a cabinet and pulling down a canister. He turns suddenly and heads towards the stove, tending to several things at once. His eyes pass over the door quickly, though he gives no indication he has seen anything there.

The boy takes a quick step back into the shadow of the hallway, the ray of light from the kitchens reaching out like a betraying hand and falling across the toe of his fine shoe. He glares down almost angrily and then his gaze swings back up towards the doorway. He gazes upon that handsome face and his small hands clench. He watches for those garnet eyes to find him, and that mocking laugh to drift through the darkness, but he hears nothing, sees only stark efficiency as dinner preparation continues. Rather than relief, though, his stomach clenches and his breath leaves him in a slow, shaky exhale. He is horrified to realize that he is disappointed.

 _Oh, for-_ Frustration wins out and the boy squares his shoulders and puts a hand out to push open the kitchen door. As his foot moves to carry him from the shadows, a silky voice reaches his ears. “Was there something you wanted, Young Master?”

Warmth floods the boy’s cheeks, but to his credit that is the only indication the devil’s words have affected him. He strolls into the kitchens and the aromas and the heat assault his senses. He has no idea what dinner shall be, but it promises to be wonderful, though the devil’s scent - cinnamon and clove - is so much stronger here, that it overshadows the rich, spicy scent of the evening meal. “No. There isn’t. Just... keep doing... whatever it is you are doing.”

That face regains some of its polite composure and he sighs softly. He watches the boy walk around the kitchen island, peering into cannisters, poking at packages on the counter. He arches a brow as small legs carry the boy to the stove where he stands on tiptoe to look over the tops of the pots. _Honestly, Young Master, what is this new game?_ is the thought that crosses through his mind, but what he says is simply, “Yes, My Lord.”

He really ought not to be in here, standing in the kitchens while the devil prepares his meals. It was below him and he had not even prepared a suitable excuse as to _why_ he had ventured below stairs. Perhaps it is because he was not yet willing to admit why he was drawn to the kitchen, to where he could watch and listen and breath the scent of the devil. He turned his back on the stoves, on the eyes watching him and walked to the island again. The boy’s cheeks are still tinted red, and as he remembers the night before, and the way those eyes looked at him, into him, staring from the darkness as the devil hung above him, he begins to feel hot all over and it has nothing to do with the warmth of the kitchens.

The boy smiles and it is a wicked little thing, unpracticed and surprisingly honest. _A game, then_ , he concludes. It is all a game, a skillful manipulation of the situation, a desire for a specific result. 

_Was there something you wanted, Young Master? No, there isn’t…_ The boy is a consummate liar.

A dark brow arches as the devil attempts to go back to his duties. His shoes tap against the stones, and his body, so solid and so very _there_ nearly brushes against the boy several times as he stirs, and tends, and adds a tray of something to the stove. He can hear the boy’s heart beating in his chest, he can taste the agitation, the excitement, the frustration in the air, exhaled on the boy’s sweet, chocolate-scented breath. It is frankly exciting, but the small master has made no order, nor inclination for his desire to be enacted upon. This game must have rules, and the boy had yet to define them, even unto himself. 

It worked a little too well. To the boy’s dismay, he is once again being fairly ignored, the devil taking no real notice of where he is, nor what he is doing. Whereas he notices simply everything. His body betrays him, warmth spreading through his limbs, under his collar, and then sending the first throbs of need through his lower regions. He thinks he ought to be embarrassed, but he also ought not to be here, he ought not to be smiling at his devil’s back, and he certainly ought not to have such a large knife in his hand. He looks down with a start, not realizing his small fingers have curled about the handle. It is heavy in his hand and the moment he lifts it fully, and the tip scrapes along the board, he catches the reflection of the devil’s eyes in the blade.

“Young Master?” It is phrased as a question, but it is hardly a query. No, it is more a warning, a velvety reprimand for toying with something that could be a danger to him. 

The boy laughs lightly. _You are more a danger to me,_ he thinks and runs a delicate finger over the back of the blade. “What? Didn’t I tell you to go back to what you were doing?”

The devil arches a brow and his garnet eyes have deepened to the color of blood-soaked rubies. He hesitates for a heartbeat and then takes a slow deliberate step forward. “Yes,” he states and it is so rich and dark and low that the boy can’t help but shiver lightly, his body betraying him. That inhumanely handsome face is smiling and it is not polite, it is not indulgent, it is not servile. It is hungry. 

Those eyes upon him steal a breath from his lungs. The devil’s voice, so sinful and rich, wraps about him and the hair at the nape of his neck stands on end as a shiver of excitement passes through him. “Ah!” It is a small yelp of pain, more from surprise than discomfort. But the boy looks down at his hands, one has slipped along the blade and his eyes widen slightly seeing his own blood drip to the stone floor. He doesn’t move, his head never budges, but that blue eye looks up through dark lashes to see the devil staring down at him.

He pauses in his movements, stopped in mid-stride. He can hear the sound of the blade cutting through flesh, smell the boy’s blood as it falls to the floor. His smile is even less human now as the tips of his teeth show just below his lip. He wets his lips and his arousal begins to build, watching that blue eye focused on his tongue and having lost all regard for the blood seeping from his hand. He drops to a knee in front of the boy and holds out a gloved hand. Those pale fingers barely brush against soft aristocratic skin.

The boy’s heart is beating faster, his wound stinging and his pulse racing beneath his skin. The devil is so close, _so close_ and not nearly close enough. He is beginning to wonder if he might have made a miscalculation. _You are more of a danger to me,_ he thinks to himself once more. But his lips curl as he looks into the devil’s face; he does not fear this danger, but it excites him and wise or not, he lays his hand in the devil's grasp. “It hurts,” he says, but the boy is a consummate liar.

He chuckles and wraps long fingers about the boy’s thin wrist. He doesn’t believe the soft lies spoken through deceptively innocent lips. The devil looks into the boy’s face and watches the kindling he has laid inside of him slowly catching fire. His tongue slips between his lips and traces along that soft, pale finger. He hears the boy’s breath catch and it is the sweet music of which he relishes in being the composer. The boy trembles and the way his pulse thrums beneath the devil’s thumb reveals his excitement. He inhales deeply, swallowing the scent of the boy and the devil finds himself pleased when he does not attempt to pull away. 

His mouth is so hot, so wet, so very like it was the night before. The boy shut his eyes then, squeezing them tightly so he wouldn’t see those glowing eyes looking up his body at him as indecent things were done to make him moan and squirm against the coverlet. Here it is bright and hot and exposed and his gaze is transfixed as that tongue laps at his skin. His body shudders and he moans as the devil takes his fingers fully into his mouth. Wet and slippery, the sinful tongue strokes against his pale digits, lapping the blood as it drips, and the feeling is euphoric. He can’t help it and a long wavering moan escapes him. 

The devil’s eyes glow, and then he is lifting the boy up and laying him down atop the island. His mouth is hot, his tongue undulating against those small fingers, drinking down small droplets of the boy’s blood, sucking on the pale skin. 

Short cries escape the boy, first in surprise and then in pleasure as the devil’s hands begin to roam his body. He isn’t aware of how he came to be undressed, not following how the devil’s hands moved so smoothly, so quickly over his body. All he is aware of is the weight of the devil atop him, the decadent wet heat of his mouth, the way those dark chuckles seem to make him shiver in a way that has nothing to do with the cold surface beneath his back. He is unaware he still clutches the knife in one hand as he reaches to bury his fingers in the devil’s hair.

It is so sudden, so quick, but there is a flash as the sharp blade rises, dangerous in the boy’s grasp. Then there is a clatter as the devil pins that wrist above the boy’s head. He has released delicate fingers from his mouth and looks into the boy’s flushed, panting face. He grins his fiendish smile and he licks the last crimson drop from his lips.

Soon the boy is panting, his legs wrapping about the devil’s waist. His back arches into that hot searching mouth as it explores his skin with biting kisses and sucking hard enough to bruise. Everything feels just so good, so warm, so very dangerous and his voice quivers when he cries out. He hasn’t quite gotten the rhythm yet, and his body shakes as he tries to match the devil’s thrusts into him. “So good,” he pants raggedly and he can feel his body growing hotter and more tense, every nerve thrumming with just how _good_ it feels. His cries grow louder and his body is trembling against the devil’s hips slapping against his skin and as he calls the devil’s name, he slips those bleeding fingers back into his mouth. The devil growls and sucks greedily as his talented hand coaxes the boy’s climax from him. It is a shuddering and desperate thing, shaking him to the very core and splattering his front with sticky droplets. He moans and whimpers and rocks beneath the devil until he growls, his thighs trembling with effort and filling the boy with warmth.

He is there in the kitchen with a breathless boy in his lap. He sits upon the stool, carefully straightening his clothes, stroking his hair. He holds him, murmuring softly into his ear, until, with a tiny embarrassed shove, the boy slides from his lap to stand on his own. 

“Now then,” the devil says, as if nothing untoward had happened and he takes the boy’s injured hand into his own. “Shall we give this a little attention?”


End file.
